She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. . Murder had become nothing to her. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a faint shudder stir her shoulders. I heard only after it was all over. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses.
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